


stand me at the head of the crusade

by haloud



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura (Voltron)-centric, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9002713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Allura's birthright is a heavy burden, a constant itch beneath her skin.  Learning to navigate the new world she woke up to, she tries to take too much onto her own shoulders.  As she dreams every night of ceaseless wandering through the Castle halls, she searches for a way to ground herself in a world gone strange and cold.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from lions! by lights

In unguarded sleep, Allura dreams of walking, of wandering, of hallways and turns and the final destination is the cold, cavernous ballroom, where she knows something awaits her.  And then she wakes, the dream leaving iron on her tongue, a squeezing around her temples. 

The pull is strongest in the small hours of the morning.  A hook at the base of her skull, static beneath her skin and behind her eyes.  Only time and wakefulness drives it back to the background, so mornings pass by subdued and quiet.  Coran and Allura spend them together in the dining hall—the smaller dining room, that is, the one with the kitchen Hunk has claimed, the one that the paladins always congregate towards.  The main dining hall remains dark, locked behind one of the doors that they have yet to reopen in their exploration of the castle.    

There is both too much and nothing to say between them.

The somber mood brightens as soon as Shiro shuffles into the room.  Every morning, Shiro is tentative, almost apologetic, as if he somehow doesn’t belong in a place at the table.  But Coran has made it a personal goal to make Shiro feel more comfortable with the two of them, so as soon as he joins them Coran snaps into action.  Allura herself greets him with a simple _good morning,_ secure in the knowledge that he expects nothing more from her, not when his eyes are still shadowed and shuttered—if anyone would understand the itch in her blood, it would be Shiro.

Over breakfast, Allura half-listens to Shiro talking about Hunk’s investigations into the castle’s natural self-cleaning systems.  (“The whole castle is self-maintaining, so why not the pods? It’s driving Hunk crazy.”  “Don’t be daft, dear boy, you can’t have a _self-cleaning pod._ How would _you_ like to have your skin treated and scraped off by cleaning protocols? There’s a difference between healthy and squeaky-clean, after all!”)

The quiet, the background noise of Shiro and Coran’s back-and-forth, is always a nice part of mornings.  Relaxing.  Distracting.  She takes a long slurp of whatever human hot beverage Hunk has provided most lately.

Really, it’s been a blessing to have him, the happiest of coincidences that the new team of paladins possesses a person with his abilities.  Most of the castle’s food, while kept technically edible—Allura tested as much, against Coran’s emphatic urging—wasn’t really meant to be stored for so long and had lost all flavor and texture.  Hunk’s uncanny knack for turning alien ingredients into approximations of human food was the greatest gift in the galaxy, even if it meant that Allura and Coran ate a little adventurously some days.

The exploration of the storage units makes slow progress, considering the Alteans and the paladins all have so much to do, even in between altercations with the Galra.  There are good days—like when they reached the ball court and Allura spent an afternoon schooling Lance and Keith at the games she’d loved as a child—but many are like the day they uncovered the food stores: experimental, dull, and sobering.

Thoughts of the mind-melting length of time she spent in stasis draw Allura too deep within herself, until the feeling of drowning sinks in her chest, until the squeezing at her temples returns. 

She must recenter. 

Her hands are firm around a warm mug.  The table surface gleams slightly beneath the blue lights—the training room lights are too bright and hurt her eyes, as do the lights the humans keep in their personal space and the common areas.  When Allura and Coran are alone, it’s a blessed relief to keep the lights dim, and Shiro has never complained about the softer lighting Altean eyes prefer.

She feels the mug; she sees the table; she hears—Shiro is fielding several suspicious questions from Coran about the nature of this… _Earth dust_ he speaks of that coats everything back on the human planet.  Coran’s look of disgust at Shiro’s explanation (well, it depends on the environment, but it’s a combination of plant pollen, little specks of sand and dirt, dead skin cells--) earns him a sheepish shrug and a smile from Shiro.

But the conversation twists away to new topics faster than Allura can track, and once Allura’s concentration slips her mind jerks back from the centering thoughts of here and now and back to the hole it was swirling down before.

The same recurring echo: if not for the castle ship’s staying live, if sleeping, for all that time, what would she and Coran have awoken to?  _Dust_ so thick it clogged the machinery of the pods and left the last remaining Alteans to die?  No, they would not have awoken at all.

 _Dust_ would have buried the Lions in their bays, the console in the control room, the banisters of the ballroom, while the two remaining Alteans slumbered on into eternity.  Turned the whole Castle into a tomb fit for a—

Princess.

Her fingers twitch in her lap; she grips the chair beneath her to stop them.  The hook in her brain tugs sharp.

It was second nature, when she awoke, to introduce herself as _princess_.  She closed her eyes on a loving father and a burning world, and opened them on five aliens and a universe gone silent.  Altea, her home, gone; no cartographer had penned its rings into a star chart since time out of any memory but hers or Coran’s.  Or, well, Zarkon himself. 

But what is she really?  Sovereign of what?  Princess—heir to what, when all before her are gone?  How many planets where she once paid visits, danced with fellow dignitaries, learned the face and language—how many places of her past are even still in existence, even painted Galra purple?  Pidge’s words from one of their very first team-building exercises were hardly the first time Allura herself questioned what identity still remains to her, but hearing it out loud just sunk those claws in deeper.

Only the feeling of her chair giving way beneath her clenched fist brings her back up, this time.  She scans the room without moving her head, trying not to give away the fact that she’d just been miles and millennia away.

Coran has left the room.   But Shiro remains, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed and posture relaxed in near-meditation.

Allura huffs out a sigh of relief and leans over her cooled drink once more, head aching but mind quieted.  In the corner of her eye, Shiro’s mouth tilts up in a little smile, and he cracks open one eye to look at her.

His happiness always looks the most genuine in the blue-lit quiet mornings.  No Altean advice or medicine or assistance can chase away his demons and make him sleep, but at the very least a slow easing from nightmare into daylight can bring them both a measure of peace.

The other paladins trickle in slowly, in various states of waking.  They grab bowls and spoons and shovel food down, none of them speaking until they’ve finished eating and woken up a little bit.  None of them gets the luxury of sleeping in, so a gradual awakening is the best they can hope for.  The quiet between Allura and Shiro opens easily to include the paladins and their penchant for conversation.

“You know what sucks supremely?” Lance grumbles, his entire upper body laid out across the table, lip jutting out in a pout, toying idly with his spoon.  “I even miss the Garrison’s shitty showers. I _dreamed_ of them.  Like, what’s up with that?  Garrison showers.  Nothing but mildewy drizzles of disappointment every day, and yet here I am dreaming of relaxing in a _Garrison shower_.”

Allura’s back straightens.  Lance, sharing something he misses from home?  Not an entirely uncommon occurrence; he bleeds homesickness from every pore, but for him to bring it up unprompted?  Perhaps his condition has become more serious, in which case—

“Bro.”  Hunk flops down next to Lance.  “You could never get the right temperature; they were always either ice cold or blistering hot.”  But his tone of voice is inconsistent with his disgruntled words, better suited to fond reminiscence than complaint about the substandard conditions of their academy.

The Castle of Lions’ hygiene protocols are programmed to accommodate over three hundred different species’ needs, able to provide everything from water to jets of air to dust to acid and beyond, for any creature’s bathing needs.  The Castle adjusts itself specifically to each being’s internal body temperature and ensures that every guest can clean and refresh themselves in a comfortable environment.  Perhaps the systems are malfunctioning.  Allura opens her mouth to mention as much.

“After some of those Garrison workouts?  Blistering felt juuuuust right,” Pidge snorts.

“That’s because you have flimsy noodle arms,” Lance replies.

So much of human physiology flies in the face of logic and reason—blistering sounds so unpleasant, and yet Hunk let out a groan of pleasure at the very mention of it.  She leans forward to speak—

“Because you’re so much buffer?” Keith snaps, responding to Lance more than coming to Pidge’s defense.  Lance jerks his head up, rebuttal on his lips, but then Keith continues, face strangely pensive: “The showers in B Block had the best water pressure.”

Her response, her explanation of the Castle’s workings, her place in the conversation—it all fizzles out at once.  Four out of five Paladins are now laid out in various comical positions, sighing dreamily over something as simple as ways they used to bathe themselves.  Shared experience will always be a more effective exercise in team building than anything Allura or Coran can devise. 

Alteans were never known for their tolerance of heat, so she can’t relate to Pidge’s wistful mention of blistering-hot showers.  But Allura could tell them of the cool, tingling oils her mother rubbed into her temples after hours of grueling study and mental labor meant to hone her brain to cutting edge.  It was a similarly rejuvenating experience to the one the Paladins now describe about hot water leaching the aches from their muscles.  Allura remembers the smell of the oil like she smelled it yesterday.  She cannot remember the song her mother hummed to soothe her daughter’s weary mind.

She could tell them—

Shiro leans forward, joining the conversation.  “B Block?” he says, “You’ve got to be joking.  B Block always smelled horrible; there’s no way water pressure would make that worth it.”

Keith bristles.  “Yeah, but it’s _quiet_ usually in B Block, and you’re going to be using soap and shampoo and smelling good _anyway,_ so—“

Shiro just chuckles and stands up, holding his hands up in joking surrender.  He pats Keith’s shoulder companionably as he walks past.  “Speaking of Garrison workouts, it’s time to start training for today.  Go start stretching while I finish cleaning up.” He hustles the Paladins down the hallway before returning to clear the table.

Shared experience.  The Paladins of Voltron are meant to be one unit: a whole comprised of five inseparable pieces.  And their handlers are not meant to share this bond, or even to understand it.  It’s a basic lesson, and one that rings true for all Altean heirs.  She learned it at her mother’s knee and remembers at least that much, though at that age she spent most lessons doodling in the margins of her school books.

None of those spines have been cracked in ten thousand years.  The thought whispers through her head, and she pushes it aside as she does the five hundred of its fellows that stuff her skull each day. 

The one that represents the Paladins of Voltron in diplomatic affairs mustn’t be a part of them.  This, Allura knows.  Has read case studies on incidents incurred when royal business conflicted with universe-defending business and caught Royal Paladins in the crossfire.  Listened in rapt attention as Coran and other tutors told her of the fierce debate over whether a Paladin should even be allowed to be a king by marriage, as her father was. 

Allura is less a part of the whole that is Voltron than the retractable bolts that link Lion to Lion to arm to leg to head.  A constant reminder: you must maintain your distance.  You have a duty.

It was so much easier to stay the course when Father was around to advise her.

“Are you finished, Princess?”

She starts so intensely that she bangs her knee on the bottom of the table.

“Princess, are you finished eating?”

Shiro’s brow furrows in such picturesque concern.  It almost makes her curl her hands into fists.  It makes her want to be taller and larger and crueler and colder, so they—so he—might realize her role without her having to spell it out for them.

“Princess?” He murmurs, and reaches out with a warm, living hand.

She does not run.  It would be unbecoming.  She leaves the room at a brisk glide.

\--

When the paladins run drills, Allura observes and, when they need prompting, intervenes with whatever cajoling or nastiness the situation demands.  Team-building exercises and mental battles are her forte, but her expertise— _ha—_ on Voltron matters doesn’t extend quite as far as hand-to-hand combat or bayard target practice.  So, when Shiro decides it’s time to work on their personal fighting skills separate from the lions, she sits back and lets him work.

And work he does.  They all do; they work with sweat plastering their hair to their skins, following their Black Paladin’s lead as he works through the exercises with them.  And he almost always does, unless someone’s form needs correcting and he needs to take a more direct teacherly approach.  Even when Lance and Hunk run drills with their long-range bayards, Shiro, with the pragmatism that Allura is learning to expect from him, didn’t hesitate at all to steal a few Galra blasters during one infiltration mission so they could all have at least some long-range training.

Shiro has them playing a simple game: three teams (Keith and Hunk vs. Lance and Pidge vs. Shiro acting alone) competing to obtain the most targets, either friendly rescues or foes neutralized, within a castle-generated labyrinth.  Lance and Pidge win the first round.  Pidge’s bayard allows them some flexibility with its length, allowing them to mark certain necessary turns better than the other groups. 

So they break before starting again.  Hunk goes straight for Pidge, already full of chatter about the modifications Pidge has made to control her bayard’s grapple range.  Lance and Keith both make a beeline for the water table where they, predictably, begin to bicker about the results.  Shiro grabs some water for himself, then leans against the wall and watches them all.

And Allura comes down from the observation deck.  She stops to talk to each paladin, commending them on their strengths and suggesting ways to improve.  But she only has one real target in mind.

Once she finishes admiring a schematic of the labyrinth Hunk plans to use towards victory in the next round, Allura walks straight for Shiro.

“Hi, Princess,” he greets politely.

“Generous of you to let them win like that,” she says, smirking when he draws up his shoulder in a defensive shrug.

“I don’t know what you mean.  Lance and Pidge deserved every bit of that win; there’s no way I could compete with the kind of efficiency her brain and his impulsiveness generates.”

Allura laughs, a light, fond sound.  “You do not have to defend their performance from me.  I had a better vantage point than you did, after all; I saw all their good work.”  But he’s not getting off that easily.  She nudges him in the ribs with her elbow, and he winces.  “And I also saw you taking some pretty dumb turns, when I know you know better.  They might deserve the win, but you would have as well—if you had been trying your hardest.”

“It’s not a lie to say that Lance and Pidge deserved a victory more than I did; they showed great teamwork, and that’s the point of the exercise.”

“Of course it’s not a lie.  You made absolutely sure it wouldn’t be.”

It’s his turn to laugh, then, along with another sheepish shrug.  He sets his cup on the floor, then turns to face her entirely, a sparkle in his gray eyes.

“See, I caught you,” Allura says.

“Guess you did, Princess,” he responds.

And she can’t wait any longer to ask the question.  He’s so different from what her experience with paladins—Black Paladins especially—has led her to expect.  And since he’s open like this, she might even get a straight answer.

“Why did you even compete with them if you had already planned to lose, or at least to not try your hardest?  In fact, why do you train alongside them at all, when you could likely benefit from a harsher regimen for yourself?”

He shrugs, and ruffles his own hair.  His eyes dart to the side—checking that none of the other Paladins are listening—before speaking. “This is all new to me.  I’m more used to being the top of the class, or just an upperclassman, than I am to actually being _in charge_.  It’s still mentorship, I’m not flying totally blind here, but…I don’t know, it feels too strange to bark orders at them in a setting like this.”

Behind Allura, a flailing elbow from Lance catches what must be a water pitcher from the sound and sends it crashing to the ground.  In response, Keith’s voice raises in pitch and fervor.  Shiro’s eye twitches, and Allura fights down a smile.

Shiro clears his throat before continuing.  “Leading by example is the best way to lead, I’ve always been told.  And I may be the head, but we’re supposed to be in sync for the most part, right? And I can’t do that if they don’t see me putting myself through the same workouts I devise for them.”

Allura tilts her head, considering.  He’s right. These Paladins have perhaps a little _too_ much shared experience for the traditional chain of command to apply outside of battle.  “If you behaved as an instructor rather than as a member of the group, it would put too much distance between you, and they could grow resentful.  I see.” 

“It’s not that I didn’t _try_ to win; if I’d beat them by myself, they would’ve deserved the loss.  But this exercise was supposed to be about teamwork and decision-making, and we all benefit more from seeing a pair win than me alone.  Anyway, I do have plenty of time to do individualized workouts, just like they do.” He nods then, a resolute gesture, but he still looks sideways at her.  Looking for her approval?  A cosigning of his leadership decisions?

Of course he looks to her.  She’s prepared her whole life for this; this is her world. 

_Or what’s left of it._

She can’t stop the thought any more than she can stop the current beneath her skin telling her to _go,_ to go to where she’s needed, to where she dreams of every night. 

She takes a deep breath and remembers holding on to her father’s cape as he introduced her to a towering man in white-and-black armor, and he’d laughed his full-belly laugh when she’d refused to come out and meet his leader.

Shiro goes more rigid the longer she stays silent.  He’s got the straightest spine she’s ever seen when he’s compensating for uncertainty and imbalance.  As soon as she nods her agreement, he’ll relax ever so slightly, and he’ll return to the group to continue drills for another six hundred ticks. 

And so it goes.  She smiles, finally, and he relaxes.  “You truly know your paladins well,” she says, and the relief and joy at her words radiates from him in waves.  It threatens to weaken her knees. 

“Thank you, Princess.  It’s an honor to hear you say that.” 

“I only speak the truth, Shiro.”

Absurdly, Allura almost expects him to bow in that moment.  Can easily imagine him sliding gracefully onto one knee, clasping his arm across his chest in a salute.  Can imagine herself put a hand on his shoulder, tell him to rise, gesture to the assembly hall filled with dignitaries all there to see _her,_ to be at _her_ disposal, to see _her_ present _her_ paladins of Voltron, and—

Shiro walks away from her, grinning broadly.  Wide-shouldered, straight-backed.  He claps Lance on the shoulder and leans in to look at something Pidge has pulled up on her tablet.  When he looks at her—at them—he glows with such love, such pride.

He folds into the group.  He looks to her for guidance.  He absentmindedly scratches the bridge of his nose where the scar rakes it in two and shoves Lance playfully when he complains about re-starting training “before the good minerals have had time to percolate, man, that water isn’t as magic as some of the shit around here, what if I’m still dehydrated—“

A wholly less intimidating figure than the Black Paladin from her haziest memories.

She can do this.  Even alone, she can do this, just as she is.

“Want to join us sometime, Princess?” Hunk asks as Allura passes by them on her way back to the observation deck.  She stops short, his casual question throwing her off balance.

“It might not be a terrible idea.  Who knows what we might run into out there.  We should be able to coordinate,” Keith adds.

“Dibs.  I _so_ call dibs on having the Princess on my team when we run it again, oh my god—“ Lance shouts, cutting Keith off.

“She hasn’t even said _yes_ yet—“ Keith snaps before Pidge butts in:

“Hey!  So quick to replace me—man, your ass would’ve been in last place if you hadn’t been on a team with me— “

“Yeah, but if I’ve got Allura then she can just _punch through the walls,_ guaranteeing us an even _better_ win!  We’ll crush you all!”

“It’s your call, Princess.” Shiro’s voice cuts through Lance and Pidge’s bickering, and then five sets of eyes blink expectantly at her.

There are a thousand reasons not to.  First, she must maintain a certain distance.  Second, what will Coran say?  Third, pairing up with a Paladin shows favoritism, intended or not.  Fourth, it benefits training to have an objective observer.  Fifth, she’s a sore loser.  Sixth—

Oh, what the hell.

“I hope you’re prepared to regret your invitation,” Allura says with a fierce grin.

“Alright,” Shiro says, and they all turn back to him.  “Just a second—“

He fishes a handful of straws out of his belt pouch, then asks Keith to cut them into new sizes so they’re left with three pairs of differing lengths.  Shiro adjusts them to conceal their true lengths, then holds out his hand.  Each Paladin takes one, keeping it covered; Allura raises an eyebrow and plays along rather than bothering to ask questions about bizarre human rituals.

Everyone uncovers, revealing the purpose of the whole production: their new teams.  Shiro with Pidge, Lance with Hunk, and Allura herself with Keith.  Lance groans in absolute dejection when he spies Allura and Keith’s straws.  Hunk smacks him on the back of his head.

“Start training sequence,” Shiro says, and the floor of the room bucks into motion, throwing up high walls.   “Remember, your objective is to get the most points before time runs out.  Points are given for either rescuing a ‘prisoner’ or eliminating a hostile.  Points are deducted for hits—one for a hit from an enemy, two for friendly fire.  Everyone understand?”

They all nod.  Pidge’s eyes gleam; Lance is already bouncing up and down, ready to go.  Keith drops into a battle-ready crouch.

“Start…now!”

Keith is the first one to reach the mouth of the labyrinth, with Lance half a step behind.  Pidge practically leapfrogs Hunk to get ahead of him.  She ignores his indignant squawk and shouts “ _Hurry up!”_ back at Shiro.

Not to be outdone, Allura sprints ahead, easily passing Lance and drawing up beside Keith.

“Let’s put some distance between us and them and then regroup,” she says.  He nods, throwing himself around a corner; Allura scrambles to keep up with his snap decision-making.  They hurtle around two lefts and then a right, leaving them face-to-face with a dead end.

“As good a place as any,” Keith says, shoving his hair back from his face and panting slightly.

“What do you remember from the previous round?”

“Well, the labyrinth is definitely different.  But the sentries don’t have regular patrols.  Shiro probably thought it’d be too easy otherwise.”

“Anything else?”

“There are more enemies than prisoners.  A lot of the friendlies will be placed inconveniently to try and trick us into shooting them.”

Allura nods, distracted.  Even now, surrounded by walls that nearly scrape the ceiling, she can feel a force pulling her towards the door, down the hall, towards the—

Perhaps they have something of an advantage.

“Well then.  Let us begin.”  Allura rubs her hands together.  Might as well get the first test out of the way.  She pulls back her arm, braces, then drives forward at the wall with all her strength.

Her knuckles bounce off ineffectually, and she grimaces, shaking her hand out.

“So much for Lance’s ideas,” Keith snorts, sounding utterly unsurprised.

Allura straightens back up and nods sharply.  “We’re three turns from the entrance here.  If we count our turns correctly, we avoid running in circles.”

Bayard fire in the distance.  Keith sets his jaw and starts back into the maze.

“Well, now we know to go the opposite way,” he grumbles, breaking back into a run.

\--

Shiro towels off his sweat.  The lights have begun to dim once more in accordance with the humans’ need for fluctuating light cycles to assist their rest, now almost back down to comfortable levels.

“You all did really well today.  I’m proud of you,” Shiro says, to a room full of exhausted but beaming faces. 

Everyone stands a little straighter when Shiro praises them.  Allura herself smiles when she notices Keith’s back straighten, Lance’s shoulders go back, Pidge sheepishly adjust her glasses.  Hunk claps his hands together happily and wraps one arm around each of Lance and Keith.  Allura stands back from their little celebration.  It’s not for her, though she’d be lying if she pretended to be stoic after her post-beating Lance for a point victory dance, that at least Keith saw firsthand.

“Hunk, Lance,” Shiro continues the debrief, “I’m impressed with how well you adapted to the task considering the limits of your weapons in close quarters.  But remember to always be conscious of your surroundings when firing those things point-blank; I don’t want us to have to find out what a back-blast from one of those things could do to human skin, and the people you’re defending won’t always be synthetic.  Pidge, good job letting the game play out like it should and not just hacking the system for an easy win this time.  You worked hard.”

“’Hacking the system.’ Oh, come on, Shiro, what year is it? You sound like an episode of _CSI— “_

He silences Pidge with a look, but Lance can’t hold back a snicker.  Shiro just rolls his eyes.  “ _Anyway._ Keith, I want to commend you on your teamwork with an unfamiliar partner.  You didn’t just rush in blindly; when the situation called for it, you let Allura go ahead of you and covered her back.  Good job.”

Keith preens, soaking up Shiro’s attention.  Lance laughs again, this time ducking behind Hunk to try and ide it.  It doesn’t work, but everyone else graciously ignores him.

“And Allura—“ Shiro comes to her next in his little speech, but his voice falters before he gets anything out.  He clears his throat awkwardly, then just says, “It was great having you here.  Thanks.”

As easily as it came, the adrenaline and camaraderie Allura had been feeling is ripped out from beneath her, leaving her flat-footed and cold.  “It was educational,” she responds, feeling her jaw move mechanically, hearing her own voice cold and distant.  She turns on her heel.  Hunk starts toward her, brow furrowed in confusion and concern.  She pretends not to see.

\--

One dim corridor bleeds into another into another.  Allura’s feet carry her automatically along a circuitous back route, far from the training deck, away from the Paladins’ living quarters, and a way that shouldn’t pass any room Coran is likely to be occupying.  The itch inside her unfolds into a song running along her skin.  Satisfied, anticipatory.  Her mind ranges far ahead.

There is a crown on a pedestal above the ballroom.

Allura knows the location well, could find it blindfolded from any point in the castle.  She used to spend hours with her cheek pressed against its crystal box, whining to her father to let her try it on, begging her mother sweetly to give her just one moment with it on.  And her parents would laugh, and pat her head, and tell her that the day would come that she could—would have to—wear it all the time, no matter how heavy it grew.  Don’t wish your life away, dear daughter. 

It’s been singing to her since she awoke, getting more insistent every day, until the pressure threatens to cave in her skull.

The Paladins can enjoy dinner together without her, without her attempts at impartiality, without an _alien_ in their midst.  Allura stops fighting.  She answers the call.

She climbs the ballroom stairs slowly, skirt dragging behind her. 

It's been over 10,000 years since she saw it last.

So much could go wrong in that time.  So much could have gone wrong recently, in the time she’s been too busy to spend time reminiscing, in the time she’s been avoiding this room.  While her father’s memory lived on, the high balcony with its golden pedestal was easy to ignore.  How profoundly everything loomed, too large for comprehension.

But no longer.  Every quiet morning, every frantic, trapped night, they all pile up and up and it’s irresponsible to keep pretending that just maybe things will suddenly be okay when she next opens her eyes.  She is one of two; she is one of the last Alteans.  She can no longer live between blinks like each stutter in her view of the present might out of nowhere be a reset button for the past.

But it’s almost still deniable as the crown shimmers before her.  Pristine.  Unsullied.  Not by destruction, not by time, not by Galra theft or corruption, even after everything the Castle has been through recently.

The crown is hers by rights.  Always has been.  She has already put this off for too long.  Her hands hover over the surface of the box.

“It will open at your touch, dear daughter, just as soon as you come of age _.”_

Her eyes are moist in the slightly mirrored surface.  Her father’s voice seems to vibrate in her fingertips where they rest against the crystal, the memory of this lecture strong enough to make her shake.

 _“_ Why must I wait, father?” She mouths along with the words, plays the part a younger her always played.  Eager for leadership; hungry for time to hurry up and make her strong.

“Because you just asked me that question.  Every queen—and queen-to-be—must possess the wisdom to wait for the correct moment.”

What she wouldn’t give for that wisdom now.

Just one memory.  It echoes off the walls and thunders in her chest.  Just one memory, but the castle is full of others like it, even after Father’s memory was purged from its core. 

Is now the right moment?  Here and now it is quiet and private; she is free of weight for the first time, the crown seeming to vibrate on every frequency telling her _this is where you belong._ She might have time for meditation before lifting the crown to her brow, even if she could never undergo the proper vigil.  And perhaps wearing the crown and its five crystals would purge the last of the lingering corruption from the Altean technology.  Perhaps there would be no consequences to the heightening of her power that the crown promises.  Maybe even power enough to take Zarkon by surprise—

_Enough to destroy them.  Power to command millions.  Make my thoughts their own, take it up, take the crown, take the power it belongs to me—_

Allura snatches her hands back; her fingertips have gone ice cold and trembling. 

It would be so, so easy. 

But what kind of legacy would it be for her mother and father if she ignored every tradition?  What legacy would it be for Altea if she freed the galaxy through tyranny of a different kind? 

Allura bows her head, and drops her hands, and leaves the ballroom and its shadows behind before she’s missed. 

But the trip down the long, unlit corridor does not take her any farther away from the hard truths the sight of her crown, _her_ crown, throws into sharp relief.

 _Princess,_ they call her, and how would their attitude change if she changed out that title for another?  Is there even a difference between princess and Queen now? 

Hunk told her one day that none of them come from a place where they’re answerable to someone with her title.  He’s the only one who will speak freely of Earth.  Allura is too sensitive to approach Lance with her questions; some current runs between the two of them whenever _home_ is mentioned even in passing—she’s too conscious of his bone-deep longing to ever ask him for the details. 

Talk of home just makes Pidge frighteningly serious; Keith will shrug and scowl and clam up whenever he is asked any personal questions.  Shiro smiles his wan little smile and offers a story or two from his time at the Garrison—nothing specific, nothing personal, but interesting enough in its own right.

Perhaps one day she will ask them to join her in watching the stars, and she will tell them of how the Altean sky turned silver when the sun was high in the sky, tell them all of the feeling of the foaming forest floor beneath her bare feet, of the little jewel-bright berries that would drop into her hair and clothes.  And she will sit and listen to Hunk’s tales of cool drinks in the hot air, and Lance’s memories of the sound of crashing waves, and Keith’s account of the wind of the desert in the early morning.

Shiro and Pidge might still sit silent, until remembering is free of guilt and pain again—or maybe the outpouring of her own pain and guilt can be a panacea for them all.

But she’s a—she’s Altean, and in command—her paladins mustn’t ever see her _ache._   The hole Altea has left in the universe gapes far too large for her to feels safe broaching the subject just yet.

She is thankful not to sense Coran anywhere nearby as she approaches her chambers.  It’s impossible to hide anything from him when he’s around—the man who played both uncle and nursemaid, gentle tutor and, as Allura learns more every day, calculating advisor. 

Alone, Allura finally breaks.  Her guard comes slamming down; somewhere in the corners of the room the mice scurry for cover, squeaking wildly.  Her knees wobble, then lock painfully into place to prevent her from falling.  She clutches at the chair in front of her vanity, collapsing into it before she falls entirely.

The muscles of her back are always knotted tightly from hours standing stiff and firm, and the rough hits she took shielding targets in today’s training exercise throb sickly.  Even the slight weight of her nightrobe heightens the ache.  She burns as she tries to unwind herself muscle group by muscle group.  Her breathing grows labored.  And slowly her arm comes up to cover her eyes; she covers her mouth with a hand.  Her left shoulder protests the motion.

And how long did Father burn?  Did Mother scream as she felt him ripped away from her, or was she, at her post down in the generator chamber, the first to be consumed?  How long were her people bones before they were ash, then atoms?

A sound rips from her chest. 

She aches, and she cries, and she tries to remember the griefs that her living death within the pod denied her. 

The mice squeak frantically.  One bumps her cheek, one runs over her hand, and the other two run in circles around the surface of the vanity.  Creatures of Altea, they can feel her pain, unguarded as she is.  Selfish, to put this on them.  Allura clamps her hand harder over her mouth, drowning a sob. 

A knock on the door.

It couldn’t be Coran; he would announce his presence before knocking.  Acid washes up from her stomach at the thought of any of her paladins seeing her in such a state.

_Duty calls, Princess._

She pulls herself to her feet.  A second knock, softer this time.

“Coming,” she calls, shuffling to the door.  She locks her backbone back into place and schools her expression into something that is—though certainly not reassuring or capable of convincing anyone she’s fine—fierce enough to discourage questions or small talk.  She opens the door.

And, of course.

Of course. 

Shiro stands before her, arms tucked into his sides, nearly at attention he stands so straight and guarded.  Before she can stop herself, Allura snorts out an almost-mocking laugh, stepping aside and gesturing grandly to welcome him in.  He keeps his back to the wall. 

It _itches_ in her stormy brain, the old world and the new.  This bizarre human creature against the backdrop of her childhood bedroom.  And he somehow looks so small standing there, though he looms so large at the forefront of her thoughts.

He doesn’t take up nearly enough space.  Allura wants to grab him, haul him into the center of the room, position him here and there until he eclipses the whole of what used to be and she can _stop stop stop_ remembering what’s been lost.

“What do you want,” she says instead.

“I wanted to check in on you after training today.  You ran away so quickly.  Is something wrong?”

Allura snorts.  Surprise flickers subtly over Shiro’s face at the undignified sound.  What’s one more person disappointed?  Allura’s mouth feels disconnected from her brain.  “No, Shiro.  Of course nothing is wrong.  Why would anything be wrong?”

“You’d probably rather talk to Coran than any of us, I know.  I’m sorry if I’m overstepping.”

Allura’s nails curl, scraping into the smooth surface of her vanity.  “Your concern is noted.”

But Shiro’s head just tilts to the side.  Allura had thought—or maybe just hoped—that irritation and formality would be enough to discourage him.  A foolish thought, apparently.

“Princess—“ He starts, jaw set determinedly, concern not left his face.

“If you,” she responds, teeth grit hard enough to crack, “are going to stand there, _Paladin,_ and _lecture_ me not to hide my problems, I will be forced to _reprimand_ you for insubordination, presumption, and bare-faced hypocrisy.”

And there it is—the walls slam down.  Allura’s eyes can’t miss the way the light dims behind his eyes, the minute muscle shifts that school his face into smooth professionalism.  The ease with which he does it is astounding.  In the space of a second, it’s like looking at an entirely different Shiro—while Allura, Princess of Altea, with all the training and experience of the heir to a diplomatic throne, struggles every day to be half so inscrutable. 

Jealousy rises in her, pushing her heart into her throat.  And something darker still, sicker, uglier— _doubt._ If Shiro is so capable at camouflaging his emotions—a fact Allura’s always known, a fact Coran fixates on as both a point of pride in Voltron’s leader and as a point of concern on a personal level for Shiro’s wellbeing—how is it possible for her to know the _real_ Shiro?  It’s there before Allura can stop it, red and angry in her brain—what’s real, what’s fake, this passionless statue, the solemn, shaken shell that haunts the breakfast table, a warm smile for his team—

 “My apologies for being out of line,” Shiro says.

Allura covers her mouth with a trembling hand, beating the thoughts back in horror.  Her head is so muddled— There’s a buzzing in there still, the tug towards her crown and her birthright, and the grief—but how can she make excuses, how can there be any excuse for such toxic _doubt_ about the character of a member of Voltron?

If she’s lost faith, then how can anyone in the galaxy—

He waits a full fifty ticks for her response before setting his jaw and turning away.

Is this what loneliness does to a person?  Allura spends her days observing, drowning in the gulf of strangeness that separates her and Coran from the paladins, and then when someone comes to her with a hand outstretched, she just…bats him away, and now…

Before he can leave the room, she lunges forward and seizes him by the elbow.  Yearning courses through her, sudden and terrifying.  All alone in the galaxy, suddenly there’s nothing Allura wants more than to feel a part of something—human.

Tell me about exploration, she begs in silence, tell me of your wonder; tell me the colors of the stars when seen for the first time through human eyes; let’s trade the flowers of our peoples and swap stories with pollen smeared on our clothes.  Tell me everything you fear you’ve forgotten, I’ll tell you everything I’ll never see again, say it aloud so it won’t disappear—

Shiro recoils from her sudden touch, then catches her by the arms to steady them both.  His hands are firm and warm, both the organic and the artificial, beneath the thin sleeves of her robe. 

“Princess…”

Allura sags slightly, unable to help herself.  Even if it was just from an automatic reaction, him catching her, she feels supported—so sick of standing straight and finally able to let go.

“ _Allura.”_

The sound of her name reminds her.  She remembers herself and regains her posture, but doesn’t move to pull away from Shiro’s loosening grip.  Yes.  Right.  He’s likely to be very confused and perhaps even angry, rightfully so.  Rarely has Allura ever felt so wrongfooted, and she gets lost for a moment in the hot flash of shame that washes from her ears to her toes at how undignified she’s been, _again._

The sound of her name?

Blinking twice, Allura forces her eyes to focus on Shiro’s face a foot away from hers.  His mouth is moving, saying something, but there’s a delay before the words reach her properly.

“Allura, you need to breathe.  In for five, then out for five.  Can you hear me?  Allura—“

They breathe in sync for minutes, gazes locked.  Allura’s heart rate slows and her mind clears.  The yellow mouse climbs onto her foot and bumps its head worriedly against her ankle.

She takes one more shaky breath, holds it, and then huffs out.  Pulling back slightly from Shiro’s grasp, she crouches down to pick the mouse up and put it on her shoulder.  It nestles beneath her hair, and the momentary distraction gives her the space she needs to finish regaining herself.

“Thank you, Shiro,” she says.  Her voice is hoarse but steady.  His dark gray eyes haven’t left her.

“Any time, Al—Princess.”

“Please.  Call me Allura.  Call me by my name, like you did before.”

He stares, seeming unsure about whether or not that was an order and, if so, whether it was one he should actually follow.

The buzzing, though receded from the unbearable point it reached moments ago, still resonates in the back of her skull.  But despite it, the way ahead seems clear, clearer than it has seemed in weeks.  She’s still sore, but her shoulders go back instinctively; a giddiness swells in her heart, and this time she doesn’t try to keep the smile off her face for _proprietary_ reasons.

“It is a request from a friend, Shiro, not an order from a commander.”

And it has to be a request, because an order would be completely contradictory.  Allura is breathless with the hope he understands.  If _anyone_ could understand the itch beneath her skin, it’s Shiro.

“But…Allura….I’m not sure it’s appropriate for—“

“What about our lives is ‘appropriate’ these days?  Who is there to be offended by a breach of propriety at this point?  Coran?  Somehow I cannot see him caring about us being overly familiar.”

“The chain of command requires a certain formality.”

“You are correct.  But I do not think that we will get the best results from adhering to a traditional command structure.  You see—“ Allura begins pacing, restless energy getting the better of her.  “Our recent argument and my minor breakdown have just shown me.  You were here to help me—I would likely have been alright eventually had you not been, but handling all the stress alone is an untenable solution to the situation in which we find ourselves.”  She wheels around to face Shiro once more and jabs a finger in his direction.  “How many times have _you_ broken down where no one could see, feeling like you’d be a burden or be ‘disrupting the chain of command’ if you came to the paladins or myself for assistance?  You are not required to answer that.”

She whirls around again to continue pacing the length of the room, then back towards Shiro, who seems somewhat overwhelmed.  “I have struggled long and hard with the massive burden that has fallen upon me—a struggle the results of which you have just witnessed firsthand.  It is presumptuous of me to say, but I am certain that _you_ have struggled as well, both with what you have experienced and the pressure you feel as the leader of Voltron.  Well, I believe that, like Voltron, we are stronger _together._ Not held at arm’s length as commander and subordinate.  If we can open up to each other as friends and equals, we can share our burdens between us.”

Speech finished, Allura waits for a response with bright eyes and hands held out in invitation.  Shiro hesitates, but he reaches out in turn.

“I…I’m not sure how open I can be,” Shiro starts, not quite meeting Allura’s eyes.

“It is alright,” she responds.  “This will never work if we begin with expectations too unrealistic for the immediate good this can do.  We must work together.  In fact, I’ll begin.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Coran is invaluable to me as an advisor and as a fellow Altean, but I feel as though I am drowning in my loneliness when I see yourself and the paladins together.  That is why I ran away after training today.  You did not analyze my performance as you did the others’, and I felt so isolated I could not bear to remain.”

Shiro’s hands squeeze around hers.  “I didn’t think it would be…”

“Appropriate.”

“Something like that.  You’re intimidating, you know.”

Allura laughs and squeezes back.  “Consider it forgotten.  Now that I am past the moment, I am not so hurt by it.  …I only wish that I could be one of you.  A selfish wish—I have my own role to play, I know—but all the same.”

Shiro finally meets her eyes.  “Are we really going to do this?”

“I dearly wish we would.”

“Alright.  We’ll do this.  It won’t always work, you know, in battle or—“

“I know.”

“But anything is worth a shot.  Let’s do this, Allura.”

They shake hands, almost comically, as if this were some sort of business deal.  There are a thousand things still unsaid between them.  The pressure of Allura’s birthright still calls her from the ballroom, but it’s far easier to ignore now that she has her own solution.  And she will be doing this _her_ way—a way in partnership, rather than by being the aloof, untouchable Princess.  Someday she will be able to approach that crown on her own terms as well and take it up at the proper time—to be a queen for peacetime, not for war. 

In the meantime, she has Voltron.  In diplomatic affairs, she will still stand apart, to be sure, and there will be situations that require Shiro and Allura to play different roles than the friendship flowing now between them.  But they both need this, right here, right now—a place to be safe within the maelstrom of their own heads. 

In the meantime, they will have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> god, this fic was tough to write, and i'm so nervous that i didn't do allura justice. but i'm glad I finally got it written.
> 
> come find me at haloud.tumblr.com!
> 
> EDIT 4/3/17: with the writes apparently confirming that allura is a teenager, i've edited some parts of this fic and removed the shallura tag altogether. i'd always labeled this fic saying that it could be taken as gen, but now im coming down firmly on the gen side. frankly, im beyond annoyed that the writers would frame shiro and allura romantically (which i feel they have) if they intended such an age difference between them.
> 
> but regardless of any of that, allura has always been of primary importance to me and to this fic. please send me a message if you feel that any part of this fic remains inappropriate, and i will edit it further. --hal
> 
> a note:  
> \- Altean crowns are fitted with Balmera-like crystals that bolster their quintessence and amplify their psychic capabilities, and a new one is made to fit the quintessence of each new leader. it's difficult to adjust to suddenly having that much power, which is why there's such a long training period and strict vigils to follow before the heir takes up the crown and why it would be such a bad idea for allura to take it up now when she's in such a bad mental state. the circlet she wears in the show that looks to have one crystal in it works kind of like training wheels


End file.
